


Don't you dare

by Luna218



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angry sex? But not really, Fluff and Smutt, John is terrified, M/M, Sherlock his reckless, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7879690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna218/pseuds/Luna218
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock jumps after a criminal while they are on a case and lands in the Thames, John panics about losing him all over again. The following hours deal with John's way of reassuring himself and Sherlock that they both survived this case unharmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't you dare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221bsweetheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221bsweetheart/gifts).



> I've written this on my phone and in the course of a few hours while being stuck at my father's. He's somewhat proud of being against homosexuality, so here's my silent protest. A Johnlock fic with sex and feels, prompted by a brilliant friend.
> 
> Please enjoy! xx
> 
> (The fic is now free of typos. Thanks again to those who graciously overlooked the autocorrect failures provided by my phone.)

All he can do is scream Sherlock’s name, then he has to watch his partner jump after the suspect, his coat rushed up by the wind as he falls from Blackfriars Bridge into the ice-cold water of the Thames. John’s vision goes red, he feels panic rising in his chest. His pulse is racing, his heartbeat thumping in his ears as he runs across the bridge, to the other side. Pushing himself up over the balustrade, so he can look down, he frantically searches the water surface, feeling the tiniest bit of relief flooding through him when he spots Sherlock’s head emerging from the river a few feet to his right.

John doesn’t think, he works entirely on combat mode now. Check surroundings, eliminate sources of danger, save lives. John runs. Off the bridge, towards the OXO Tower. If Sherlock has just a fraction of his wits left he’ll drift on the incoming current and climb back on land there. His thighs start to ache first, then his shins. Breath comes heavy as he runs along the side of the river, his gaze swaying between the river and the footpath in front of him. He stops, yells over the railing, watches Sherlock go under water shortly before the stairs down to the embankment. He stares, mesmerised, can't make himself take another step until he spots him again. He starts counting. One. _Come on, Sherlock._ Two. Counts till his lover’s head emerges again. Three. _Don’t do this to me, Sherlock._ Four. _Oh my God, he’s drowning._ Five. _I can’t do this again._ Six. _If you die tonight, I’ll die as well._ Seven. John keeps his eyes on the stairs that are half covered by water and gasps as Sherlock rises from the water, crawls up the steps on all fours. _Safe. He is safe. My love is safe._

Once again, he runs. Doesn't pay attention to anything around him now, his focus on Sherlock only. They look at each other across the gate that is supposed to keep nosy tourists from trespassing and hurls Sherlock over, catches him in his arms, holds him close.

“John..”

“Sherlock..”

He’s safe. The love of his life is safe. John sighs as he holds Sherlock close, feeling the water from Sherlock's coat soaking through his own jacket. They need to go home. Now.

 

“Sherlock,” he starts, “where..”

He doesn't make it to the end of the question.

“The thief didn’t make it. Let’s hope he drowned. Shame about the painting though,” Sherlock manages to say before he loses himself in a coughing fit.

“At least he won’t follow us. I’ll call Lestrade as soon as we’re in a cab.”

Sherlock laughs between his coughs, “None of the cabs will take me, John. I’m drenched to the bone.”

Technically, they could walk home and on a normal night John would not mind the seventy minute walk to Baker Street but tonight is different. Sherlock needs a hot shower and dry clothes. Above all else, Sherlock bleeding Holmes needs to understand that John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth fucking Northumberland Fusiliers, does not accept the death of his partner on his watch. Never again.

So when he hails a cab, for once successfully at the first try, John Watson also pulls rank. He stares down the cabby, who had been eyeing Sherlock suspiciously ever since he had stopped next to the unusual pair.

“You're taking us to 221b Baker Street now. I’ll willingly pay double the usual fare. My partner needs help, no questions asked. Either you’ll take us or I’ll make sure that you never get another passenger ever again. Which do you choose,” John hisses, furiously, trying to convince the cabby of driving them home while reigning in his anger about Sherlock’s light-hearted way of dealing with danger.

The cabby only nods his consent and John growls “Get the fuck in, you bloody lunatic,” in Sherlock’s general direction. The younger man’s eyes widen in surprise, but only for a second. John watches Sherlock get into the car and then follows, taking the seat next to him. During the half-hour ride to Baker Street they do not speak a word. John watches Sherlock from the corner of his eye, making sure the man is breathing. Halfway through the ride he feels Sherlock’s hand inch toward his knee, the long fingers slowly closing in hard at the top of his thigh. John doesn’t look at Sherlock but he grips his lover’s hand hard nonetheless. Sherlock’s answering sigh, which might have resembled the sound of his name, breaks John’s heart. He could have lost this again. Tonight, he could have lost Sherlock and this morning, after waking up together, he hadn’t even told him how much he loved him.

The cab stops and John throws enough money to the driver to make up for any costs the large wet patch caused by Sherlock’s clothes might lead to. John gets out first, then helps Sherlock and keeps him steady as they walk towards the front door and then up to their flat.

“You,” he glares at Sherlock, “you need a shower. Now.”

Sherlock had not said a single word up until now but in that moment he raises his eyes and looks at John.

“I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. It was perfectly safe. I knew the current would take me up the river. I knew I wouldn’t drown. There was no need for you to panic, John.”

John gulps, then steps away from his partner as anger starts rising in his chest. The fear, the sheer terror of losing Sherlock had been so immense, it had rendered him immobile.

“Sherlock, don’t say another word. Don’t you dare mock my worry for you ever again,” her growls and Sherlock’s eyes widen.

“Get. Into. The. Shower. NOW.”

Breathing shallow, eyes still wide, Sherlock backs off into the bathroom. John follows him and watches his lover peeling the drenched coat off his shoulders. He drops the Belstaff to the floor, his eyes on John’s as he tries to undo his shirt buttons. John steps closer and pushes Sherlock’s hands away. One by one, he opens the buttons and marvels at the pale flesh he sees. He pulls away the fabric over the left side of Sherlock’s chest and kisses the skin over his heart, long and hard. John sighs heavily and wraps Sherlock in his arms. He sobs, once and then growls, half in anger, half in pain. He lifts his hands from Sherlock’s back to his face. He presses his mouth to Sherlock’s full lips and then bites. When he feels his lover sigh, John pushes his tongue inside, licking into Sherlock’s mouth, learning the texture of his cheeks, tongue, palate all over. John moans, he feels his cock twitch in anticipation. Both of them know their bodies, inside and out. They know which move, which touch, which suck or flick of the tongue will make the other one lose his mind. John could have lost all this tonight.

He leans over and turns on the taps, making sure the water is nothing short of boiling when Sherlock finally steps under the stream. Then he returns his attention to his partner. Slowly, while they both rest their heads on the other’s shoulder, John undresses Sherlock. He pushes the wet shirt off his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. Next, he flicks open the trouser button and pushes the fabric down Sherlock’s legs. Once on his knees, John feels Sherlock steady himself on his shoulders as John unties his posh leather shoes and tears them off his feet along with his socks. John even helps him step out of his trousers. Once he is completely naked, John forces Sherlock into the shower.

The younger man looks at him from beneath his brows, blinking the water out of his eyes as he stands underneath the warm stream, “Aren't you coming too?”

John sighs, exasperated. “Sherlock, this is not about sex.”

Unbelievable Sherlock. Trust the bastard to smirk knowingly. “Oh John,” he purrs, “who are you trying to fool?”

Before John knows what is happening he is stripping himself bare and climbs into the shower behind Sherlock.

“You,” he growls, “you have no idea what I’m going through every time you leave me out of the loop, every time you run or jump or drown yourself in the fucking Thames and I have no idea if I’ll ever get to kiss you again.”

With this, John embraces Sherlock from behind and mouths at his nape and neck, kissing and biting the taller man wherever he can reach. Sherlock is already rendered speechless at that point. John knows they both know that after events like these, John needs reassurance. He needs to feel alive as much as making sure that Sherlock is alive. So he embraces his lover again, letting his left hand slide down Sherlock’s stomach while the fingers of his right hand gently caress one nipple and then the other.

Sherlock’s moan shoots through him like thunder and he feels himself getting hard. Bending his knees a little and then straightening again, John tucks his cock between the plush cheeks of Sherlock’s arse, the skin made comfortingly warm again by the water that is still beating down on them.

“Oh, Joooohn,” Sherlock moans and the blond man shivers, feeling the need to claim, to possess, rising in his chest.

Bracing himself on the wall, his hands just inches away from Sherlock’s, John starts moving against the soft flesh surrounding him. II feels heavenly. He kisses his way up from his lover’s shoulder blade to his neck, slowly fucking the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and the other man seems to relish it just as much as he does.

“John,” her hears Sherlock pant, “more. Need more. Need you. Please.”

Even though John wants nothing more than to take control, he follows that particular wish. Lifting his left hand to Sherlock’s chin, he turns the other man’s head to the side to kiss him deeply, while his right hand takes the place previously occupied by his erection. Slowly, he circles Sherlock’s entrance with the tip of a finger and almost bites down on the taller man’s lips when the first digit slips in just so.

“John please,” her hears Sherlock moan, “your tongue. Lube.. under the sink.”

At this point, John loses all capacity to think. Reaching behind himself he turns off the shower before dropping to his knees. Sherlock’s arse is mere inches away from his face and he longs to touch and to taste. Lifting his hands to the plush cheeks, John pulls them apart quickly and wastes no time. Just one flick of his tongue across Sherlock’s hole has the man crying out in pleasure and John has to squeeze the base of his own cock hard for a moment to keep himself from coming. Then he returns to his task. Spreading Sherlock open once more, John licks at the puckered flesh until he feels it relax. Tenderly, he mouths at the rim and then pushes his tongue inside.

Sherlock groans with pleasure and it takes a moment until John registers what the rhythmic movement of his hips means. While John was fucking him with his tongue, Sherlock had taken himself in hand.

“No,” John orders, remarkably dominant despite his current kneeling state, “you don’t get to touch yourself now. You’ll come when I tell you to.”

He pushes himself up into a standing position and grips at Sherlock’s cock from behind. “Are we clear?”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he repeats the question, emphasising each word with a firm tug on Sherlock’s erection.

“Yes, yes. John, please,” is all Sherlock can say at this point. His smart mouth, his know-it-all attitude thrown to the wind, leaving him open and vulnerable for John’s affections. And John knows.

Of course he’d been angry at Sherlock’s recklessness. He'd fuck it out of the man if only he could. Leaving a bruising kiss at the back of Sherlock’s neck for the detective to think about, John turns away and retrieves the bottle of lube they kept in the small cupboard under the sink. He coats his fingers generously at first, before slowly pushing them against Sherlock’s entrance and over his perineum.

“Promise me,” he says as steadily as he can while massaging Sherlock’s prostate from the outside, “that you’ll never be so reckless again.”

“John, it was perfectly saaaa.. uh,” Sherlock stops mid sentence as John takes a step back and ceases from touching his lover.

“Sherlock,” John is bristling now, even though the fact that his erection is straining up against his belly somewhat lessens the impression of his anger, “PROMISE ME.”

So Sherlock does just that by the only way he seems to know. As John watches, the slender man raises his hands above his head and rests them against the wall of the shower while simultaneously pushing his firm behind towards his lover. 

There is a lot that John wants to say in that moment but “Fuck, Sherlock, look at you!” are the only words that make it past his lips.

Testing gently, John pushes first one, then two fingers into Sherlock. All the while he kisses his neck, and the line of his shoulders. Soon, he hears his partner’s gasps turn desperate and he adds more lube and a third finger, just to be sure. He is angry at his idiot, certainly, but he’d never risk hurting Sherlock.

So when he finds his lover’s entrance willing to welcome him, John steadies himself and pushes in, slowly. It seems like they are both holding their breath until he is fully sheathed inside Sherlock’s body.

“Wait,” Sherlock whispers. “Just a moment. I’d like to feel you.”

Moved by Sherlock’s request, John complies. He leaves gentle kisses at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and then he reaches around and brushes the tips of his fingers over the head of Sherlock’s cock before wrapping his hand around the solid length.

“Alright, love?” he asks, and it only takes a small nod from Sherlock before John starts fucking the body before him in earnest. He moves slowly and shallow at first, keeping nothing more than the tip of his cock in Sherlock’s arse and he knows that it is driving the other man crazy with longing.

“John, please, John, more, deeper,” her moans, “MORE.”

John gives in, providing deep but slow thrusts while he starts circling the crown of his lover’s cock with enough pressure to provide satisfaction. When Sherlock tries to push up into John’s fist, the older man makes him stop with a firm bite to the shoulder and Sherlock groans, then lets his head drop backwards. John does his best to capture Sherlock’s lips as he guides his lover’s legs further apart and increases the speed of his hips slapping against the plush cheeks as he buries himself in that gorgeous body over and over again.

Before he really wants it to happen, John can feel a familiar pressure in his testicles. There is the tell-tale tingle along his spine, the feeling of warmth spreading through his abdomen first, then his whole body and he tries to focus the last bit of his wits on fisting Sherlock’s cock, on running his thumb over the sensitive frenulum over and over again and just before he cannot take it anymore he growls, “Come for me, Sherlock,” and they both collapse against the wall of the shower, panting, shaking, moaning.

“Fuck. Fuck! Fuck, Sherlock. FUCK!” John chants, still languidly rocking himself in and out of his lover’s body until he grows too soft and slips out.

Sherlock turns around, then, and they look at each other and understand.

_This is what we do. This is what we chose, and it’s always going to be like this as long as we have each other._

John starts the shower once again and carefully, he cleans the rest of Sherlock’s body, runs his fingers through the curls, washes his legs and back, then his stomach and chest, and the soft flesh between his legs. He kisses him once, trying to make Sherlock understand what he means to him and John knows that he’s understood when Sherlock steps out of the shower with his eyes closed, completely relying on his partner's guidance.

John takes a towel from the door and dries them both, before he takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him to their bedroom. They lie down and John welcomes Sherlock into his arms. The taller man remarkably folds himself together in such a way that he makes John’s chest his pillow, and sighs contently. John drops a kiss to the mop of still damp curls as Sherlock presses his lips to the skin over John’s heart.

“I love you, John. You should never doubt that,” her breathes, raises his head and John meets his lips one last time before the two men fall asleep in the comfort of their soft embrace.

 


End file.
